


Unreliable Narrative

by Anyawen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A bit meta, John is Not Amused, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Sort Of, actually, and no S4, but definitely AU prior to S3, fic goes AU after the fall, gratuitous nods to fans and fandom, in theory, maybe a bit before that, pints and pub grub, technically, though they do still exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 02:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15450933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: Henry Knight’s publishing house has received a manuscript purporting to be a sensational 'tell-all biography' about Sherlock - and the author isn’t John. Heads may roll.





	Unreliable Narrative

**Author's Note:**

> Cookies for ASilverGirl and J_Baillier for the loan of their eyeballs for beta purposes, and to 7PercentSolution for the Britpick!

“Henry, it's good to see you,” John said, rising to shake Henry Knight's hand as the other man joined him at the table in the back room of the old pub. Mid-afternoon on a weekday, it was quiet save for a table of women pouring over maps and planning a tour of sites where their favourite programme had filmed.

“And you, John. Enjoyed your latest blog post,” Henry replied, pulling out a chair and sitting. “Did Sherlock really deduce that Bowler was innocent based on the square cut of his tie?”

“Yeah, he really did.”

“Amazing.”

“That he is,” John replied with a grin, catching the eye of the waiter and waving the man over. “They've a decent organic hefeweizen here, or a nice bitter ale, and lots of things in between,” he said, handing Henry a menu as the waiter approached.

“Ta,” Henry said, glancing over the beer list and ordering a pint of stout and a basket of chips.

“How are things down in Dartmoor these days?”

“A bit quieter than when you were up,” Henry replied. “Gary and Billy have adopted. Twins. And gotten a puppy.”

“Large breed?”

“Corgi.”

“Probably for the best,” John said with a smile. “What about you? How are you doing?”

“Things are going well. Got engaged last month. Planning a spring wedding.”

“Congratulations, mate! Married life is a marvelous thing.”

“Thank you, we're looking forward to it. Might send along an invite, if you think you lot might manage to get away for a long weekend,” Henry said, leaning back to allow the waiter to set down his order.

“Would be nice to see the place without the chemical fog, yeah?” John agreed. “Go on and send it. We'll see if the criminal classes allow for a mini break.”

“Here's hoping,” Henry said, lifting his pint to tap against John's.

“So, then,” John said as Henry shook a bottle of malt vinegar vigorously over his chips. “What brings you to London?”

“Officially? Meeting with the head office.”

“How's that now? Isn't reading a thing you can do from home?”

“It is, generally,” Henry replied. “Have to put in face time a once or twice a year or they start to get a bit worked up.”

John sat back in his chair. 

“And did they decide they needed 'face time' with you, now, because I've just turned them down again, and they hope that, as a friend, you'll have some pull?”

“They mentioned it,” Henry admitted. “I let them make their pitch and said no. I'm not here to pester you to turn your blog into a memoir of your adventures solving crimes with Sherlock, even if – in the interests of transparency – I would be thrilled it if you did. As a reader, though, not as an editor or publisher. I love the idea of getting a glimpse behind the curtain, to see what normal life in 221b looks like in the gaps between the cases. All that madness you post on the blog, and then what?”

“More madness, to be honest,” John laughed, but shook his head. “You've a strong opinion on the matter for someone not here to try to get me to sign on the dotted line.”

“I suppose I do,” Henry agreed easily. “If that's not something you want to do, though ...”

“It's not that I don't want to,” John said. “It's that I'm not sure I've got the skill to do it right. Blogging is a whole different style of writing, yeah? More casual. Informal language, no bother about varying post lengths. And, honestly, we are a bit busy actually _having_ those 'adventures' for me to write more than the blog just now. It'll keep, yeah? We'll retire one day, when we're too old to go chasing down alleys, and jumping fences, and leaping rooftop to rooftop. Maybe I'll do it then.”

“Makes sense,” Henry nodded.

“But?” John asked, seeing that Henry had something more to say.

Henry sighed.

“Look. I said that the meeting at the head office was my official reason for coming to London. But, unofficially, if they hadn't called me to come down, I'd have been at your doorstep anyway. As it was, I was already looking at the train tables when they rang.”

“Sounds ominous,” John said. “Case?”

“No, not a case. It's … a manuscript.”

“A manuscript? For a book?”

“Biography and memoir are not my division, right? I work in fiction. And there's this manuscript I've just received … Well. The author is calling it a 'speculative biography'. Of one _Sherlock Holmes_.”

“Come again?”

“Suggests that there must be something in Sherlock's past that made him the way he is,” Henry explained, holding up a placating hand as John bristled. “The thing is, the author seems to be sympathetic in his portrayal of Sherlock. He's interested in him. Says he knows him personally and has worked with him on occasion. Says he'd once been taken in by Sherlock's brusque 'high-functioning sociopath' public persona, but has since come to realize that it's just a smokescreen – a bit of protective camouflage. His book, he says, is one possible story about why such armour was necessary to construct.”

“I want to see it. And I want to know who wrote it,” John said, stabbing the table with his finger.

“I knew you'd say that,” Henry said with a sigh. “Look, John. I want to show it to you. But. Do you have any idea how many lines I'm crossing just telling you about it?”

“But you _are_ telling me, Henry. You said you'd have shown up at my door just to tell me,” John replied. “And what you're telling me is that someone out there is planning to publish what they believe to be deep, dark secrets about Sherlock's past. I've seen that happen before, yeah? When that bint from the Daily Mail published Moriarty's lies with just enough true detail from Sherlock's time in uni for it to ring true. I don't have to tell you how devastating that bit of 'speculative biography' was, do I? The lawsuit that followed when Sherlock came back wasn't much fun, either.”

“No, I know, John. I do. That's why I'm here. To cross those lines.”

“You brought it with you,” John said.

“I did. A digital copy. On my phone. You can't take it with you, but we can sit here as long as you like, and you can read it.”

“Deal,” John said, hand outstretched.

The phone slipped into his hand a moment later. 

“You've blacked out the author's name,” John noted.

“I'd prefer not to read his obituary before I've had time to finish my drink,” Henry replied dryly, lifting his pint.

John grunted a response and began to read. 

He did not look up from the phone for the next four hours. He ignored the waiter when he returned to bring Henry a second pint, and then a third, and then a plate of steak and kidney pie. Finally he put the phone down and sat back, rubbing his hands over his face. When he let them drop he saw Henry signaling the waiter to bring them another round and nodded his thanks.

“Ta,” John said as the waiter handed him the glass. He lifted the glass to his lips and drank deeply, draining half the pint in one go.

“So.”

“Yeah,” John said, lifting the glass again. When he set it down again the remaining liquid could only be measured in drops. “A secret psychopathic sister with incredible powers of manipulation, who killed his childhood best friend because Sherlock wouldn't play with her. And then she tried to kill Sherlock by burning the family house down. And then, after trying to burn down the facility where she'd been institutionalized, she was imprisoned in a top-secret government island prison?”

“I know,” Henry agreed. “And his family decided to use Sherlock's memory loss after the trauma of his friend's death and the house fire to somehow erase all traces of her from their home – and never mentioned her to him again.”

“They turned his friend into a dog,” John said, shaking his head in disbelief. “His uncle, who conveniently worked for the government and could spirit her away onto the island facility, came up with the plan, and his parents accepted it, and his brother continued the ruse for his entire adult life. And this, the author claims, is why he turned to drugs, and doesn't dare allow 'sentiment' into his life – why he's a rude arsehole who is moved to solve puzzles and crimes because his mind is still trying to unlock the missing memories and find his lost childhood friend.”

Henry nodded and took a deep breath.

“There's more.”

“How can there _possibly_ be more?” John asked.

“When he submitted this work, he also sent in an outline for a proposed second book. Another 'speculative biography'. One guess who the proposed subject is.”

“You must be joking.”

“The outline suggested a plan to reveal a history containing an apparently abusive, alcoholic, homophobic father, and a loving but ineffective mother, a coming out gone wrong for your sister, leading to her leaving the house and turning to drink, and you refusing to acknowledge your bisexuality, even after a clandestine affair with a senior officer during your military career.”

“I'll kill him,” John said darkly. “And Sherlock will help me hide the body.”

“You don't know who he is.”

“Of course I do. Anderson is the only one person who has ever worked with Sherlock that is given to conspiracy theories this insane. And the next time I see him, I'm going to feed him his teeth.”

“I really wish you wouldn't.”

“If he were writing this sort of nonsense about your father? About your fiance? Making up outlandish, _monstrous_ stories - that people will believe, because that's what people do- … What would you do?”

“I know what _you_ should do, but, you won't like it.”

John points at the phone. “Well, I don't like _this_. Not one bit. I doubt any action plan you suggest would put me off more than that fucking rubbish. Keep in mind, I'm already considering murder.”

“You'll think I've been trying to manipulate you.”

“Have you?”

“I don't think so. Maybe? I hope not. But I can't deny that I want what I'm going to suggest. I've already told you as much.”

John leaned back in his chair and studied Henry. The other man continued to eat his dinner with a forced sense of calm. He was anxious, and hopeful.

It clicked.

“Oh.”

Henry stilled, a bite halfway to his mouth. John met his gaze when he looked up, and gave him a grin.

“Good plan.”

“You really think so?” Henry asked, his relief evident.

“It's brilliant. Win-win, yeah? If I sign with your publisher and agree to turn the blog into a memoir, I can add additional biographical details. Steal the wind from his sails by publishing the real story of Sherlock's young life.”

“And yours.”

“Mine's boring.”

“Boring is better than wildly inaccurate, isn't it?”

“You have a point. I'll think on it.”

“Think fast, John. I can't be the only publisher that he's submitted the manuscript to, and it's actually not badly written. Good ideas, good development, decent writing. A bit of editing and it will be a solid piece of work. Someone, somewhere, is going to decide that they don't care about the real-life connection, hide behind the claim that it's 'speculative', and publish it. If you want to get ahead of it, you'll need to get on it soon.”

John mused on Henry's words, shaking his head.

“Even if I signed tomorrow – and I won't, don't go getting too excited – the writing will take months. His book is already done. I can't get ahead of it.”

“A lot of your writing is already done, too, John,” Henry pointed out. “You know, if he'd written this using original characters, I'd have already signed him.”

“There's an idea.”

“What?”

“Perhaps he can be convinced to rework his version of Sherlock into an original character?” John suggested, then shook his head. “Nah. He's only writing this at all because he's writing about Sherlock. Or, not-Sherlock. So that he can point to it and try to claim that he has a connection to him.”

“I'm not so sure,” Henry said slowly. “If he'd stopped with the first book, I'd agree with you. But, since he's considering expanding his universe, exploring your background … I think maybe it started with a desire to establish a link with Sherlock, but now, maybe he's more invested in the story he's telling. I can work with that.”

“Great,” John said, smiling. “How, exactly?”

“If he agrees to rework his characters into originals, I can offer him a three-book deal. The two he's discussed so far stop when you two meet, because he can't sell 'speculation' when a factual account exists on your blog. But, if the characters are original, he can follow them into the present day. He can write a novel that explores what happens when they meet? How do they interact given their various troubled histories? Does the murder-sister ever get loose? Is she still obsessed with her brother? And his new best friend?”

“Appeal to his pride in his skill in storytelling, rather than his vanity at knowing Sherlock,” John mused. “That might actually work.”

“The promise of a larger payday can't hurt, either,” Henry added. “If he agrees, it would mean that he'll spend several months scrubbing this manuscript of all hints that it's connected to you and to Sherlock. In which time you'll be able to work on turning the blog into a book, with real details about life in 221b between cases, and a bit of actual biographical information.”

“That's still an if,” John pointed out. “ _If_ he agrees.”

“True. He may still try to shop to other publishers as-is, and he may get a bite on the single volume, or even on this one and his proposed second. But if he continues to claim that they're about the two of you, those two books are all he can do. We offer a three-book deal using original characters, and after that he has the option of writing them into new adventures in the same universe. Scrubbing the characters vastly increases the potential scope for his work.”

John gave a measured nod.

“All right. If you get him to agree, and to sign a contract that removes any possible suggestion that this is about Sherlock, or about me, I will turn the blog into a memoir. But _only_ if you get him to agree. If he moves forward with this, he will wish I'd only fed him his teeth.”

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that part.”

“Probably a good idea.”

“Well then,” Henry said, looking at his phone. “It's just gone nine, and there's a night train leaving at half ten. I can get a sleeper car. Can get home and get to work on writing up a proposal and a contract to send to Mr P Kevin Ander, Jr. and see if he bites.”

“That's the name he's using? Kevin?”

“Lots of authors use a first initial and middle name pseudonym," Henry said, shrugging.

“Yeah, but … Kevin? Sounds like some overeager intern at the BBC,” John said with a laugh.

“Better than Hamish,” Henry muttered, standing. “I am not looking forward to seeing 'Henry Hamish Knight' on the wedding invitations, though I am looking forward to seeing the wedding invitations.”

“You can always leave it out,” John suggested as they exited the pub. “We did. 'John Watson and Sherlock Holmes invite you to witness their exchange of vows ...”

“You did, didn't you?”

“For much the same reason,” John said with a smile. “It's John Hamish Watson-Holmes, for the record.” 

“My sympathies,” Henry laughed, extending his hand.

“Thanks for coming down- and for crossing those lines. I won't let on,” John replied, shaking Henry's hand.

“Sherlock will know anyway.”

“I'll make sure he doesn't let on, either. Just keep me posted, yeah? Let me know if 'Kevin' signs the contract, and I'll get in touch with your biography department.”

“Will do, John. I hope you'll make it out for the wedding,” Henry said, climbing into a cab.

“We will if we can,” John replied, closing the door and waving the cab off.

“'Speculative biography',” he muttered, shaking his head. “Fucking _'Kevin.'_ ”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and chuckled to himself as he started for home.

Sherlock deduced John's meeting with Henry in the time it took for John to make himself a cup of tea and sit down at his laptop. He smiled to himself as he listened to Sherlock talk through his deductions while pacing rapidly around the flat.

“Anderson always was better at telling stories than observing the evidence,” Sherlock muttered. “Creating obvious fictions based on misinterpretations of the incomplete bits of data he managed to find at the scene.”

“You know, I can't tell if that's an insult or a compliment,” John remarked.

“No, neither can I,” Sherlock replied sourly. 

John felt Sherlock stop behind him, and managed not to startle when he appeared at his elbow, peering over his shoulder at the blog displayed on the screen.

“You're going to do it then? Write the memoir?”

“Think so, yeah.”

“Good.”

“Really?”

“Your blog is about me. Your memoir would be about us. A tangible testimony of our life, and available around the world for everyone to see. Of course it's good.”

“I thought you might object to more of my 'romanticized' writings.”

“I object to romanticizing the _cases_. They were solved by observing the facts in evidence and applying logic to deduce the solution. Romanticizing that obscures the process,” Sherlock replied. “Your book, however, would be more than that. A record of our life together, and the cases we solved along the way. I've no objection to romanticizing that, as I've actually found it to be rather romantic.”

John gave Sherlock a look of bemused affection. Sherlock snorted.

“Go on, then. Get writing. I'll take care of devising Anderson's chastisements.”

“Nothing that would indicate it's about his book, Sherlock. We can't throw Henry under the bus.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied. “His punishments shall be inventive, untraceable, and apparently random. A series of minor misfortunes.”

John smiled and turned his attention back to his blog. Whatever Sherlock came up with, John fully expected to be entertained by the results.

**Author's Note:**

> Anderson took the deal. Of course he did. And he fucking RAN with it, absolutely _vomiting_ words onto the page. Chaos and conspiracy theories, criminal masterminds and assassins, weddings and babies, drug relapses and alcohol abuse, violence from bonfires and bullets, fists and feet, the return of the still-obsessed murder-sister and her games. He is responsible for more, rather than less, of what we see in S1-2, and entirely at fault for the dumpster fire that is S3-4.
> 
> His books sold very well, and financed the purchase of a new car after his old one developed an odour that could not be identified or removed. Strangely, his new car developed the same problem after a month. Also, his DVR malfunctioned, erasing all his programmes, and instead recording only Cbeebies. And he has managed to get himself on every spam list, EVER - snail mail, email, and phone. It. never. stops. We won't talk about the 'condom of the month' club packages that cannot be cancelled ...
> 
> There may be more of Anderson's chaos plot coming, but at this point it has almost nothing in common with it's original source material. Our boys are fine. In love and solving crimes, as they were meant to be.
> 
> John's memoir made best seller lists, as did the audio version narrated by Sherlock. The book was translated into 19 languages in its first year of publication, and its sales financed the purchase of a cottage in Sussex. And, strangely, a 'condom of the month' subscription ...


End file.
